


put your circuits in the sea

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5471996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ricky rubs at his head, distressed. “So. You’re telling me that in trying to buy an android who could do the dishes and the occasional dusting I’ve accidentally been sold a- a sexbot!?”</p><p>“Well,” the robot says philosophically, “I think I can probably do dishes but. Yeah. Essentially.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your circuits in the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadlikeknives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlikeknives/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! :D  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> the title is from Electric Feel by MGMT, because OF COURSE

 “Okay,” Ricky mutters to himself, squinting at the microscopic print of the owner’s manual. “Um,” he looks up, facing the blank glassy stare of the robot. It’s a very beautiful robot, Ricky has to admit. He hadn’t been expecting it to look so good, especially for a fairly inexpensive model. If it weren’t for the curiously dead eyes it could almost be a real person. “Um. Engage start-up protocol.” He says, a bit awkwardly.

A brief flash zips over the dead eyes, and they become suddenly life-like. The robot blinks and settles out of its stiff posture into something slightly more natural.

“Start-up protocol engaged,” it says. “Please state the name by which you would like to be called.”

“Ricky,” Ricky says, just managing not to say _umm Ricky_ and baptising himself as such to his new robot.

“Hello Ricky,” the robot says, in its smooth, warm but unaffected voice, “Would you like to run the tutorial, or proceed directly to the interactive mode?”

Ricky frantically flips through the manual for a minute. The robot waits patiently.

“Interactive mode. Please.” He’s going to feel weird enough around this thing, he might as well get to know it like a person right from the get-go.

“Interactive mode engaged. Please confirm in five. Four. Thr-”

“Confirmed.”

The robot is silent for a second and then tilts its head slightly and smiles. “Ricky, right?” Its voice has lost some of the smooth, dial-tone-operator quality that had characterised the start-up sequence.

“That’s right.” Ricky glances down at the cover of the manual again. “You’re HK51+, right? What can I call you?”

The robot stutters. Not vocally, but ‘stutter’ is the only word Ricky can think of to describe the tiny, subtle halt in its motions. It had been standing casually in Ricky’s living room, chest moving slightly in imitation of breathing, shifting slightly on its feet, but at Ricky’s words it just- stops- for a split second, barely enough to be called freezing but just enough to shatter the illusion of life. The robot stutters like a skipping CD.

Then it frowns. “I am not an HK51+ unit,” it says, tone somewhat doubtful, “I am a CR7 unit.” It pauses, as if unsure, before picking up on the second string of its response. “You can call me Cris.”

Ricky looks at the robot, and then back at the manual. And then at the box he’d pulled the robot out of. HK51+ deluxe housekeeping android! proclaimed the latter two. The latest in household help, with all domestic functions.

Then back at the robot. “CR7?”

The robot nods. “CR7.”

“I’m sorry,” Ricky says delicately, unsure if he’s about to cause a paradox or something, “but you were sold to me as an HK51+. It’s on the shipping invoice. It’s on the box.”

The robot crouches down to examine said box. It frowns slightly. “Huh.”

“You’re...sure that you’re not an HK51+?” Ricky says, hopefully but without much conviction.

The robot shakes its head. “Noo, I’m definitely the CR7 leisure unit.”

“Hang on- _leisure_ unit? You’re a _leisure_ unit!?”

“Yes.”

Ricky rubs at his head, distressed. “So. You’re telling me that in trying to buy an android who could do the dishes and the occasional dusting I’ve accidentally been sold a- a _sexbot_!?”

“Well,” the robot says philosophically, “I think I can probably do dishes but. Yeah. Essentially.”

 

 

Ricky hangs up the phone, and resists the urge to fling it across the room. He drops it instead on the couch beside him and lifts his hands to rub at his temples. He considers himself a charitable person, but after an hour trying to get the customer service hotline to help him in really _any_ way, he’s sick and tired of the whole affair, and finds himself wishing grim thoughts about the fate of the entire android market.

He can’t understand why it’s turned out to be so complicated: the CR7 is ridiculously expensive, far, far more so than the HK51+. He’d have expected Real Corp to be quick on the draw to take back their high-spec sentient sex toy and replace it with the basic housekeeping android he’d tried to order. Corporate bureaucracy was a nightmare. How the CR7 had even ended up packaged so ridiculously incorrect in the first place was beyond him.

“Any luck? Are you getting me exchanged?”

Ricky jumps slightly. Despite just emerging from a heated debate over getting rid of the CR7 he’d forgotten that the robot was actually _there,_ in his house.

“Um, yes, I think so. They have to reprocess the paperwork I filled out, and see if they can recall you and put in an order for a replacement. Apparently exchanging one model for another is a whole mess.” It’s a bit strange, talking about exchanging goods when the very thing he’d purchased is standing in front of him, leaning against the wall nonchalantly and looking for all the world like an extremely hot human being, instead of an android whose entire _raison d’ être_ was to _be_ extremely hot. But the robot didn’t seem to mind. It was probably programmed to be alright with this sort of conversation, Ricky thinks. He could remember being a kid, hearing about the first androids that had been marketed, and how prone to paradox they had been. They had to be treated as though they were computers, or else they became confused. Later, when the push to make the androids more and more human had picked up speed, there had been a run of models that would go into hysterics as soon as they became aware that they weren’t actually humans at all. That had been a disaster.

But the CR7 seems fine being a near-perfect imitation of humanity while chatting casually about its total lack thereof. Much better than the HK51+ would be, that was for sure. But then, it made sense that a sexbot would strive to be a perfect copy. Most people didn’t want to sleep with a machine.

The robot laughs. “And I bet it’d be waay too convenient if all that paperwork and stuff could be done in a week, right? How long before you know if you’re stuck with me?”

“They said about a month- and, I don’t mean to be rude, I really don’t think I’m stuck with you,” Ricky begins, diplomatically, but the robot cuts him off with an airy wave of its hand.

“Hey, it’s cool. You wanted a housebot so obviously you’re looking for help around here. I mean, I’ll do what I can.” It grins, suddenly, and Ricky realises just how human the android is. There’s a sparkle in its eyes. In _his_ eyes. The CR7 unit, Cris. He’s still talking. “I’m still your android, and a pricey one. I can be good for things other than blowjobs.”

Ricky flushes beet red. Cris laughs.

 

 

Ricky steps through the door and just about immediately drops face-down into the couch, his briefcase handle still clasped in limp fingers.

Cris pokes his head around the doorframe from where he’d been in the kitchen, listening to the radio and reorganising Ricky’s tea towel collection out of lack of anything better to do. Spotting Ricky prone on the sofa, he frowns. “Is everything okay?”

Ricky just groans pitifully, face still mashed into the cushion.

“Bad day at work?”

“Yeah.” Ricky moves slightly, turning his head so that he isn’t speaking into the couch. “Just. A long day. Had another handful of people in who’re most likely due compensation for various damages but won’t get anything. So typical, really.”

“You should have been a soulless lawyer for the rich suing the rich,” Cris jokes quietly. “Be less depressing than the kind of cases you take.”

Ricky gives him a weak smile that collapses pretty much immediately into gloom. “I just- I really try, you know? I see all these people getting messed about by some, some _asshole_ corporate drone that cares more about shaving a few cents off of production costs than about the wellbeing of customers, and I can’t do _anything._ ”

His voice breaks slightly at the end and Cris frowns. “Hey, Ricky. _Ricky,_ don’t say that, you do what you can, you know? You make a big difference to a lot of people, even if you can’t fix everything.”

Ricky rolls his eyes. “How can you know. No offence Cris, but you’ve known me for about a week and you’re not exactly, well.”

“What?” Cris says, tone light. “Just because I’m an android designed specially with fucking in mind doesn’t mean I’m not perceptive. Or a good judge of character. And just because I’ve only known you a week doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed, Ricky, that you’re a decent person. More than a decent person.” He grins. “Actually, I’d say you’re the best person I’ve _ever_ known.”

Ricky smiles at Cris’ gentle teasing. He closes his eyes. “I just wish I could do more, you know?”

There’s sudden cool touch on both his shoulders and his eyes snap open as he starts under the contact. “What are you doing?”

Cris lifts his hands in retreat. “I thought- you’re really tense, dude, I thought a massage might help.” He notices Ricky’s wary expression and rolls his eyes. “Ricky. I’m designed and programmed to make people feel good. That has a wide variety of definitions. I’m sick of doing the dishes and dusting, let me actually perform one of my functions, yeah? I’m an expensive model, you might as well take advantage of it while I’m here. Seriously. Your shoulders are all knots, it’s terrible for your health.” He reaches out tentatively and pats Ricky on the arm. “I’m not going to jump you. I’m still, y’know, your ‘droid. It’s not like I’ll do something you don’t want me to.”

Ricky’s expression turns a little guilty. “Sorry. I didn’t mean- I mean. I didn’t mean to suggest that you’d-”

Cris waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, I did kinda start going for it without asking. And it’s not like you really wanted me in the first place.” He grins wryly. “Plus I have access to the internet. I know what people say about leisure bots.”

Ricky flushes. The discussion surrounding androids was contentious, to say the least, even now when they were fairly normalised. He could imagine that everything cranked up a notch when it came to leisure units. He’d never really thought about it, but Cris had a constant connection to all that anger and hate and fear, twenty-four-seven, always available.

“See? You’re too good.” Cris says with a laugh, “I can tell: now you’re feeling bad that I might have my feelings hurt or some shit just because some people think I’m an immoral and unnatural creation of Satan, or something. Ricky, I’m _a robot._ I can tell you my feelings are fine.” He unfolds himself gracefully from where he’d been crouching on the floor and perches instead on the edge of the sofa, bumping lightly against Ricky’s side. “Now are you going to let me save you from dying an early, stress-related death?”

Ricky snorts, but sits up to take off his jacket and tie, throwing them aside before resettling down on his stomach, more comfortably this time than from where he’d flopped down earlier. “Alright. This massage had better be worth the giant price tag the CR7 is advertised with.”

“You noticed my advertisements? I’m flattered.” Cris shifts as well, giving himself a better angle.

Ricky is opening his mouth to retort that giant billboards featuring CR7 units lounging about in nothing but very tight briefs are incredibly difficult _not_ to notice when Cris digs his fingers into the base of his neck and every other priority falls by the wayside in face of how _amazing_ it feels.

He must have made some kind of noise because Cris laughs quietly, in a self-satisfied manner. “Told you,” he says smugly, thumbs pushing hard in between Ricky’s shoulder blades.

“O _oh,_ ” Ricky sighs, and lets himself sink into the couch cushions happily.

“Good?”

“ _Good._ ” He agrees fervently. Cris is working small circles down his spine and already Ricky is feeling better than he has in a week. He can feel the tension and the stress start to drain out of his body, leeched away by Cris’ deft fingers. He hums. “Okay, I can vouch that they really aren’t falsely advertising you.”

Cris snickers. “Nice to know.”

More than just how talented Cris is at targeting all the wound up little places and loosening them, is just the simple feeling of not being alone. Ricky hasn’t had anyone around since forever; his job takes up most of his time and he had never really been one for going out to clubs. Ricky hadn’t quite noticed that he was lonely until just this moment, the soothing feeling of Cris’s weight on the sofa beside him, the touch of his hands. It was a comfort not to be alone, even if his company was artificially produced. It was better than nothing.

 

 

Ricky must have fallen asleep because he finds himself slowly blinking awake, still on the couch but with a blanket tucked around him. He can see his suit jacket and tie neatly folded on the armchair across the living room, and since he’d thrown them there unceremoniously he can only assume that Cris had tidied up. The blinds have been drawn as well but according to the clock on the wall it’s nearly nine. He’d slept for over two hours.

He sits up, his body feeling loose and relaxed, a warm sleepiness still draped over him despite the long nap. He stands with a stretch and pads his way into the kitchen.

Cris is sitting at the table, flipping through the newspaper. He looks up when Ricky comes in and smiles at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Ricky says, feeling a sudden rush of affection for Cris. Cris who did the chores and took an interest in the world and who was genuinely sweet. Ricky had known that more expensive androids were extensively programmed to have unique personalities in addition to appearances, but he hadn’t expected one to be so- well, to be so _human._

“You look a lot better,” Cris comments. “You work too hard, Ricky. You should cut down your hours.”

“Thank you,” Ricky blurts out, suddenly, the warmth in Cris’ voice setting off something that had been building ever since Cris had sat down beside him on the couch earlier.

Cris frowns. “For what?”

“For- everything.” Ricky makes a vague gesture about the kitchen. “For doing all the work even though it’s not what you’re programmed for. For taking care of me. For being, _nice,_ and funny, and interesting to talk to. And I don’t know how much of that is your _personality_ and how much of that is your _function_ but. It’s been nice all the same.” He ends somewhat lamely, wishing he had a better way to put it.

But Cris is looking at him with an expression that is both surprised and delighted, his perfect eyebrows shot half-way up his forehead, his eyes alight, smile beaming.

Faced with that unbridled happiness, Ricky can only smile back.

 

 

The next morning Ricky comes downstairs to find that Cris already has the coffee pot going and is buttering toast.

“You don’t have to make me breakfast, you know.” Ricky says, caught between feeling reproachful and touched. But Cris just grins at him.

“Gotta earn my price tag.” Is all he says by way of explanation. “What kind of jam do you want?”

 

 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” It’s seven in the evening and Ricky’s just changed out of his work clothes and is sitting on the couch, eating a slice of pizza out of the box.

“Sure, unless it’s about the nature of the universe. I’m not that kind of robot.” Cris grins lazily from where he’s sitting on the opposite end of the sofa while Ricky eats.

“No, I’m thinking smaller. More, the nature of _you,_ actually.” Ricky waits for Cris to nod, _go on,_ before continuing. “Okay, so you’re a leisure unit. A companion bot. Whatever you want to say. And you have a pretty distinct personality.”

Cris smirks. “I’d like to think so, sure.”

“Well, I was just wondering what would happen if someone purchased a leisure unit and didn’t like its personality. What if they didn’t get along at all. Would they have to return the unit for another and just hope it would turn out better?”

“Oh, that’s easy. And you don’t know, because you don’t have the right user manual, but basically, all androids have the option to do a hard reset. For higher spec units, that includes a reset of the personality. So the owner can flick through until they find a personality that suits them.” He shrugs. “And if nothing works, there’s always a blank setting that essentially starts at neutral and then adjusts according to how the unit reads its owner’s personality. That _can_ get weird, but most people are satisfied with the options.”

A silence descends as Ricky chews over both his pizza and what Cris has told him. He’s about to reach for another slice when Cris says, in a voice striving for his normal tone but that comes out sounding rather small and nervous around the edges, “Even though you don’t have the manual, I could walk you through the process. If you wanted to do a hard reset.” He’s studiously not looking at Ricky when he says it.

Ricky gapes at Cris for a minute before scoffing. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, incredulously. “I like you. You’re _perfect._ ”

Cris looks up very quickly. Ricky smiles at him, and reaches out to lay a hand on Cris’ knee. “Perfect.” He repeats, because Cris, despite all his charm and self-assurance, is suddenly looking very vulnerable. “And actually,” he adds, with a small smile, “I’d say you were probably the best android I’ve ever known.”

 

 

It seems as though Ricky somehow _clicks_ with Cris, after that. Ricky finds himself looking forward to the end of each work day not just to be able to flop down on the sofa but because Cris is at home, waiting with interesting stories from the newspaper and bizarre meals he’s experimenting with and the occasional kick-about in the garden (Ricky had taught him a few basic moves and they had immediately discovered that Cris was frighteningly good at football). They fall into a pattern so quickly and so comfortably, that Ricky almost forgets how random Cris being in his life is at all.

At least, he forgets until almost three months after Cris had arrived, when the phone starts ringing.

“Hello?”

“This is a courtesy call with regards to your recent request to exchange the android purchased from Real Corp,” says a smooth synthesised voice. “The exchange of a model CR7 leisure unit has been approved. You will now be put through to a customer service representative to continue with your transaction.”

The voice is replaced by tinny hold music but Ricky barely hears. The exchange. _The exchange._ He’d forgotten. Somewhere between Cris rubbing the knots out of his shoulders and Ricky teaching him how to properly scramble eggs, he’d forgotten that Cris was a mix-up. He feels a bit like kicking himself now. But then again, he couldn’t have predicted coming to like Cris so much. Charming and beautiful, yes, but he couldn’t have known that Cris was also going to be sharp and funny and caring and sometimes over-dramatic but ultimately kind, kinder than a lot of people Ricky knew.

Staying on the line to finalise the exchange of Cris for the android he’d originally wanted seems stupid now. Incredibly stupid.

Ricky hangs up the phone. Quietly. The tinny music is cut off. He replaces the phone in its cradle and stares at it for a moment, thinking.

“Who was that?” Cris has sidled into the kitchen from where he’d been watching football in the living room. “Telemarketer?”

Ricky shakes his head slowly. “No. Real Corp. About the exchange.”

There’s confusion on Cris’ face before it turns to a brief flash of shock, fading into a wooden look. “Oh. Are you getting your housebot, then?” his voice is blank, devoid of inflection.

Ricky turns slowly to face him, eyebrows knit together. “The housebot?” he says, disbelievingly. “Cris, have I actually been so terrible as all that? Do you really think I’m about to exchange you for an HK-whatever it was?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I get that you’re a robot, but Cris, you should know by now.” Ricky has to tamp down the smile he can feel spreading across his face at the glimmer of hope that he sees in Cris’ eye. “Humans? We change our minds.”

There’s something daring and impulsive between them and Ricky rides it like a wave. He darts in and kisses Cris, a soft, dry kiss on the corner of his mouth. His lips are soft and part in surprise as Ricky pulls away. Cris blinks at him in confusion. “Ricky...?”

“Is this okay?” he’s suddenly self-conscious, because Cris hasn’t moved and is still looking at him with that curious expression. “I mean, if you don’t want- that’s obviously fine, I just thought that maybe, and I can’t imagine you _not_ being here, and-”

“Ricky,” Cris interrupts him, which is probably something that he shouldn’t do but whatever, Cris’ personality has always overrode most other protocols, “I’m an android built specifically to do what you want me to do. I’m designed to do what you need, wait for you to tell me what to do, how to behave. And still, I’ve wanted to kiss you so badly for so long my processors can barely deal with it.”

“How does that even work-”

He doesn’t get to finish. Cris interrupts him again, again with his mouth, but not with words anymore.

 

 

When they break apart Ricky is breathing hard and Cris, non-reliant on oxygen and smug about it, is grinning widely, pleased with himself but with a softness in his eyes that tugs at something in Ricky’s chest.

He takes a deep breath, and steels himself to ask. “Do you remember a long time ago, you said I might as well take advantage of you being here?”

Cris nods, trailing a hand down Ricky’s side, loosing sparks where he makes contact. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Cris? You’re here. And I think I want to take advantage.”

A slow smile spreads across Cris’ face. “ _I_ think,” he says, with great self-importance, “that I can probably do that.”


End file.
